


Icy Conditions

by Dayja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Story: The Adventure of the Yellow Face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:04:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cabbie picks up an unusual passenger one freezing night.  He has no coat, a big bruise on his forehead, and seems a bit confused before he rushes off into the darkness.  What is a cabbie to do but follow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icy Conditions

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: implied police brutality, child endangerment, implied homophobia
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/make no money from/am not associated with the tv show Sherlock. Nor am I associated with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story ‘The Adventure of the Yellow Face’.

**Icy Conditions**

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I take you to hospital, Mr. Anderson?” the cab driver asked as he made his way carefully down dark and icy streets.  “You look like you could use a doctor.”  The dark haired man in the back seat was slumped against the window, pale as a wraith and shivering fitfully.  A nasty bruise was forming on the man’s temple and he wasn’t remotely dressed for the weather, wearing nothing more than a thin purple shirt, and dark pants.  There was no coat in sight, and if it hadn’t been for the wallet the man had insistently waved at him, showing his ability to pay, the cabbie probably would have mistaken his poor clothing and odd manner as proof that he was some penniless drifter trying to beg a free ride and he never would have stopped.  As it was, the cabbie had assumed the man to be drunk and felt just enough conscience over leaving a man in such a state out in the cold that he had pulled over.  The hope for an over indulgent tip from the over indulged didn’t hurt either.

The man wasn’t acting quite right though, and it was making the driver nervous.  There was the bruise for one thing, and the way he was shivering, even after the driver had lent him a blanket.  Not to mention the way the man had tossed his entire wallet at him when he got in.  People don’t do that, not even trusting drunks.  A handful of too much cash, sure, but their entire wallet?

“No Johns,” the man mumbled back at him, head slumped uncomfortably against the window, “Can’t bother John.  Has pneumonia.  People die of pneumonia, you know.”  He pulled the white blanket closer around himself, shivering hard.

“Right, sir,” the cabbie answered carefully, “No johns.”  The man was a prostitute then.  That would explain his ridiculous clothes.  Probably the bruise as well.  His pimp probably told him to stay out of hospital.  That didn’t mean that the man shouldn’t go though.  He was acting strange, and the cabbie’s conscience was twinging.  Perhaps it would be a good idea to drop him off somewhere he could get help, no matter what the man said.  Mr. Anderson was obviously confused.  Plus, it would save him a rather long drive all the way into London.

Decision made, the cab driver turned right.

The man in the backseat jerked up instantly, his eyes wide.

“Kidnapper!” he exclaimed, “Where are you taking me!”  His eyes crossed a bit, as he looked out the window, and then he said, “Oh.  I said the park, not St. George!  The park, Mr. Hope, the park!  The…that one…with the…the…swans.  No, no swans, s’too cold.  The park with the cold!”

“My name’s Booker,” the cabbie answered carefully, “And you told me you were going to 221b Baker Street.”

“No, the park!  That’s where she is!  We have to…we have to find her, it’s all icy, and she’s little, and we need to tell Lestrade.  But not John.  Give me your phone.”

“Of course, sir,” the cabbie agreed, all the while making his slow winding way towards the hospice.

“No!” the man in the backseat howled, nostrils flailing as he gave the cabdriver a quite frankly terrifying look of fury through his mirror, and he hissed out through clenched teeth, “She.  Will.  Die.”

“And who is that, sir?” the cabbie asked carefully, stepping down slightly harder on the accelerator despite the icy conditions.  He wanted this man gone.

“Lucy Munro!  She likes swans and her grandmother hates her but she loves her father, so of course she’s in the park!  And she will freeze because she’s four, and you are letting her!”

The cabbie hit the brakes and his car reluctantly came to a jolting stop.  Before the cabbie could demand more information about the lost girl or decide if there really was a little girl in danger or if his passenger was just mad, said mad passenger had shouted, “Thank you!” and thrown open his door.  He leaped out of his seat, stumbled on shaky legs, and then strode off with the cabbies blanket still billowing about his shoulders like a strange white cape, or perhaps a pair of wings.

“Oy!” the cabbie shouted after him, “That’s my blanket!”  And then, remembering all the man had said he shouted, “We should call the police!  They can find the girl!”

“Call Lestrade,” the man shouted back over his shoulder, “Call…call the number in the wallet!”  And then the man had disappeared into the darkness of a side alley in the general direction of the park that was some five long streets away in the freezing cold.

“Mr. Anderson!” the cabbie called after him, but this time there was no reply.  The street around him was silent and empty, and the still open door was letting in an icy wind.  With a few unsavory words, the cabbie had to hop out of his own warm seat to close it.  Then he got back in and considered what to do.

In the end, he called the number on Mr. Anderson’s ID.

The voice that answered with a curt ‘yes’ at the other end did not sound like the raving man the cabbie had picked up.  The cabbie was taking a closer look at the ID and began to suspect that his passenger had more reasons to not look exactly like his photo besides having shaved and the general way id photos always look grimmer and shabbier than the person who owns them.  He had no idea what was going on now, unless the prostitute had stolen his pimp’s wallet and run off, in which case calling him could be the worst thing he could be doing.  But where did a four year old baby girl lost out in the cold come into it?

“Mr. Anderson?” the cabbie asked cautiously, deciding he had to say something, “I think I may have your wallet.”

“What?” said the man at the other man, and then, along with some loud cursing, “The Freak stole my wallet!  Again!  That’s it, I don’t care what Lestrade has to say about it, I am pressing charges this time.  The Freak should be locked up!  Should’ve shoved him harder!  Saying that about your dad, and now…”

“Look, sir,” the cabbie attempted to intrude, not entirely sure the man at the other end even had the phone to his ear anymore; there was a lot of unpleasant background noise crackling over the sound of cursing, “I believe a young man may be in some danger, as well as a baby girl.  Now I know you may have some hard feelings towards your…er…young man, but I was told to contact someone called Lestrade?”

“Of course you were,” the man at the other end barked.  The cabbie was already regretting this call.  He should have just dialed 999, dropped off the apparently stolen wallet, minus cab fare and the cost of his blanket of course, and been done with it all.  Then the raving young man, his pimp, and the possible little girl would be someone else’s problem.

“Listen,” the cabbie said, “I think I should be contacting the police…”

“I am the police!” the man at the other end screamed, sounding even more raving than his passenger.  Just what sort of operation had the cabbie stumbled upon?  Before the cabbie could demand more information or just hang up, a new voice was suddenly on the other end.

“Sherlock?” the voice said, sounding a bit more worried and rather less mad than the first voice.

“Sorry, what?” the cabbie asked, not sure if ‘sherlock’ was a name, or more nonsense syllables or if he had just misheard.  There was a long pause on the other end, then the voice came back, sounding authoritative but calm.

“Sorry,” it said, “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Can you please tell me who you are, how you came by this number, and if you happened to have seen tall skinny man with dark hair and no coat?”

The cabbie was still uncertain about all of this; anyone could call themselves a detective inspector after all.  Still, the mad man had said to call Lestrade.

“I’m a cab driver,” the cabbie said at last, reluctant to give a possible master criminal his name, “I picked up a young man of that description and he wanted me to take him into London.  He seemed to have been knocked in the head a bit, though, sounded a bit funny so I decided to take him to hospital instead.  Only he started demanding he be taken to the park instead; said a little girl was lost in the park, something about liking swans and her granny hating her.  Then he jumped out and ran off before I could stop him.  He left this wallet and told me to call Lestrade.  Are you really a detective inspector?  I really should be dialing 999.”

“Oh Christ.  Right.  Ok.  Can you…ok, yes, I am a D.I. from Scotland Yard, and I need…well, if you could go to the park yourself I’ll have someone meet you.  Call 999 if it makes you feel better.”

The cabbie still hesitated, not knowing what was going on or who to believe.  At least this Lestrade didn’t sound raving mad like the first man he spoke to.  What he really wanted to do was just leave and forget this whole crazy night but…

“Is there really a little girl missing?”

“There really is a little girl missing.  Her name is Lucy Munro and she’s four years old.”  Lestrade sounded very tired and old in that moment, and the cabbie found his doubts melting away.

“Then I’ll be waiting at the park.”

He drove slowly and kept his eyes peeled, but he never caught sight of the young man wearing his blanket.  As he parked his cab alongside a grove of trees, he wondered what to do next.  He kept an eye out for both the young man and passing cruisers. He left the car idling.  It was too cold out to turn the heat off.  He wondered if he shouldn’t call a few of his friends.

It was only five minutes before he saw flashing lights and no less than three cars pulled up around him.  Three cops ran towards his car and the cabbie reluctantly turned off the engine and got out to meet them.

“Are you the man we spoke to on the phone?” the silver haired man asked.  He wasn’t dressed like a beat cop, but he had the stance of one.  He was carrying a coat, not his own which he was wearing like any sensible person would.  He held up his id, which included a badge.

“You!” the man behind him shouted.  It took the cabbie a moment to recognize him from his picture since he was clean shaven.  “Where’s my wallet?!”

Eyeing him nervously and trying to decide if he was a pimp or a dirty cop or something else entirely, the cabbie nonetheless handed him his wallet.  The man looked just as raving as he had sounded on the phone; he immediately started to look through his wallet with rough anger, counting his pounds and cards and looking suspiciously at the cab driver in case he had copied down his information, since nothing seemed to be missing.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Lestrade said, calling his attention back to him, “But time really is of the essence.  I need you to tell us everything you can about the man you picked up, and everything he said to you.”

“Freak’s probably just wasting our time again,” the other officer at Lestrade’s back said.  She looked as wrung out and tired as Lestrade, perhaps even a bit weepy.

“Donovan, please,” Lestrade answered, his tone surprisingly gentle and pleading considering he looked to be the one in charge.  The woman looked down towards her feet and Lestrade turned back to the cabbie.

So the cabbie told them, all about seeing a young man dressed in practically nothing on a night like this.  How the man had looked bashed about.  The inspector had looked alarmed at this, looking back towards his two officers.  The woman just stared forward stoically, looking cold and a bit lost.  The raving man turned his head away.  The cabbie told them how the man wanted to go all the way to Baker Street.  How he seemed to be in a bit of trouble with…here the cabbie coughed a bit and tried for a bit of discretion…how he said he couldn’t see his john.  The man at Lestrade’s back snickered at that, the bastard.

Then the cabbie explained about the little girl being lost in the park, trying to repeat exactly the nonsensical ramblings.

“It’s nonsense, sir,” the woman insisted, “Freak’s gone mad.  First he runs off without his coat, now he thinks it was the grandmother?  That…what…that the girl wasn’t another kidnapping, that she just ran off, four years old, from a loving family, on a night like this?”  For a long moment, Lestrade looked lost in thought.  Then he snapped out of it.

“We’re going to set up a search party, search the park and the surrounding streets.  Donovan, go organize…and make sure they know to keep an eye out for Sherlock as well.”  Then, when she just stood and looked at him pleadingly, “Go!  You said you’re up to doing your job and I’m going to hold you to that.  We aren’t going to abandon our other leads but if there’s even a chance Sherlock is right we can’t afford to ignore him, not on a night like this.  Now go!”

“Yes sir.”  She turned to go, but paused.  Her voice was strange when she said, “Should I call Watson?”

“No…not yet.  Sherlock said he had pneumonia; best not call him all the way out here when we don’t even know…not yet.”

“Yes sir.”  She left.

“Anderson,” Lestrade said then, turning on the man and crowding him against the side of the cabbie’s car.  The cabbie seemed to have been forgotten.  “Anderson, you were the last to see him before he left.  Did you notice him…acquire a bruise on his forehead?”

“Freak must have slipped on the ice,” Anderson mumbled towards the pavement, “Anyone who doesn’t have the sense to grab their coat wouldn’t have the sense to not fall over the stairs.”

“I said to escort him out,” Lestrade answered, his voice soft and deceptively gentle, “I didn’t say to throw him out and not even let him fetch his coat.”

“He forgot it.”

“And he didn’t say anything to you at all?  He didn’t try to come back for it or demand you get it for him?”

“You said to escort him out, and I did.  He never should have said that about Sally’s dad, not after…not when the funeral was just this morning.”

“No…he shouldn’t have.”  All the cabbie could see was the back of Lestrade’s head, and his tone with those last words were almost gentle, but there must have been something quite dangerous and fierce in the look on his face because Anderson actually blanched white before he looked away, to the pavement again.  There was a long silence.

“Sir,” the cabbie intruded, “Sir?”  Slowly, Lestrade turned to look at him.  “Sir, is there anything I can do to help?  I could call up some of the lads, form a search party.  The park’s a big place to get lost in.”

“Yes, right, thank you,” Lestrade answered.

The next two hours were not how the cabbie had intended to spend his evening.  The weather was bitter and halfway into the second hour it had begun to rain a freezing snowy sleet sort of rain.  The park was full of wooded trees and dark shadows and treacherous water that was frozen not quite solid enough to hold a person’s weight but quite solid enough to hide its treachery.  Everywhere there were men and women tramping over the frozen ground and waving torches into the shadows and shouting ‘Lucy’ or occasionally, ‘Sherlock’.

Someone set up a warm up station with hot drinks and a space heater in a tent.  The cabbie was in the tent, drinking burning hot coffee and shivering and working up the nerve to go back out into the cold when an apparition stepped into the tent.

For one long second it was like seeing a ghost or an angel, white wings curled protectively about the child only just visible by the yellow ribbon poking out.  Then common sense and proper vision reasserted itself and it was a man wrapped in a sodden, dirty white blanket, his face pale and sickly, carrying something else wrapped tightly in the blanket’s folds, that something having dark brown braids wrapped through with a yellow ribbon.

“Hey,” the cabbie found himself saying through his shock, “That’s my blanket.”

“I found Lucy,” the apparition answered, before falling back in a dead faint, child still clutched protectively to his chest.

The night didn’t quite end with finding the missing girl and her missing savior.  The emergency response team had taken one look at the shivering search teams and insisted that the lot of them be checked out for hypothermia.  The cabbie was a bit insulted that he was one of the ones they dragged to hospital; he might have been on the wrong side of fifty but he wasn’t elderly and at least he had had more sense than some of the youths out searching who didn’t know better than to take a break when they started turning blue.

On the other hand, it meant he was still there when Mr. Munro ran frantically up to the ambulance where his daughter was being arranged.  Little Lucy was tired and cold but surprisingly awake.  She kept telling everyone about the ‘angel’ who had found her.  If the cabbie hadn’t seen for himself what sort of sight the young man had made wrapped in his blanket, he would have thought the girl a bit addled.

The dad went with his daughter, crying and laughing in relief.  Lestrade showed up again and went with Sherlock, who was still unconscious.  The rest of them were either told to go home and warm up or were given a ride in a cop car.

The cabbie was sitting in A&E with a blanket and hot drink and wondering if he couldn’t just leave or if the police still needed his official statement when a man came running in, skidded up to the desk, and started to cough up a lung.

“I’m fine,” the man gasped when nurses started to convene on him in alarm, “Where is he?  Sherlock.  Holmes.  They said they brought him here.”  And he started to cough up the other lung.

“Dr. Watson?” said one of the many people sitting around with a blanket and hot drink, “I thought you were at home with pneumonia?”

“It isn’t pneumonia!  I told Sherlock it’s a cold, and I’m a doctor, I should know if it’s a just a cold!  He said he was going out to electrocute pig livers, not out into the cold after a killer!”

“But it wasn’t the murderer,” the person answered, shrinking away slightly both from the man’s ire and his tendency to break down into coughing fits.  “It turned out she ran away.”

“But he didn’t know that!” the other man shouted.  Then just as it looked like the orderlies were ready to club this obviously sick man over the head to get him to stop shouting and start allowing himself to be treated like the invalid he clearly was, another doctor poked their head out from behind a door and said, “Dr. Watson?”

“Yes?” the sick person gasped out, having succumbed to another coughing fit that left him half hanging off the desk.

“Mr. Holmes was asking for you…and he said you may need some assistance?”

“It’s not pneumonia!” the man answered, and then he followed after the doctor, the sound of his coughs slowly fading into the distance.

The cabbie was just being told he could go and trying to arrange a ride back to his cab when the woman cop from the start of the night approached him.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, sounding exhausted but official, “D.I. Lestrade would like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”

She led him towards a curtained off area.  He could hear coughing and low voices.  They became more distinct the closer they got despite obvious attempts towards quiet; the curtains did very little to block sounds.

“Do you want to press charges,” one voice was asking.

“Why would I want to press charges?” a second answered, deep and thick and tired.

“Of course he wants to press charges!” a third, gruff voice answered, “The man practically threw him down the stairs into the freezing cold without his coat or phone or wallet or anything!  Just because they all assumed you’d just know Donovan’s dad died, without anyone telling you.  You’re a detective, not a mind reader!  You…you could’ve died.  Tell him you’re pressing charges.”

“He pushed me out the door.  I fell down the steps all on my own.  Anderson couldn’t knock me down if he tried.”

“This isn’t about who got the better of who, Sherlock, this is about someone under my authority assaulting a civilian, withholding his belongings, and, well, John’s right, you could have died.  If you hadn’t…”

“Excuse me,” the woman officer said, having no door to knock at to announce their arrival, “I’ve found Mr…er…the cab driver you wished to speak to.” 

“Tom Booker,” the deep voice mumbled.  A second later, Lestrade pushed free of the curtain to face them.

“Yes, of course, er…perhaps we should…”

“You might as well invite him in,” the deep voice said from behind the curtain, “He’ll want paying.  Did I pay him?”  The voice sounded confused now, the lucidity from before beginning to wavor.  “John, pay the cabbie, he…Baker Street.  No.  The girl!  We have to find Lucy…horrid grandmother didn’t want a gay son and black granddaughter…thought it was her fault her dad was being cut off, when he refused to send her away…the park, John!  She likes the swans in…no, but the ice!  John, what are you doing here, you’re sick at home with pneumonia.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, stop telling everyone I have pneumonia; it’s you that’ll have pneumonia at this rate!  I just have a cold!”  Despite the scolding and the gruffness of the voice, the second man’s tone was incredibly gentle and soft.

The cabbie could just see a glimpse of the young man, white as a the bandage on his forehead and looking barely lucid, wrapped up in some sort of contraption with his coughing friend bundled up on his own narrow bed beyond the curtains where Lestrade stood.  Despite the man’s barely lucid words, Lestrade did not lead the cabbie into the room but instead lead him a few paces away.

“You wanted my statement, officer?” the cabbie asked.

“No, no, we still have your statement from before.  Actually…Mr. Booker, I guess I wanted to say thank you.”

“What for?” the cabbie asked, “I’m not the one who found that little girl.  I didn’t even find the young man…if anything I lost him.  He did it all on his own.”

“Yes…I suppose he did,” Lestrade answered, a small, almost fond smile on his tired face, “But you did call us and alert us to what was going on.  If you hadn’t…well, they might both still be lost in that park even now.  It isn’t every cabbie who would stick around, either, and help with the search.”

“Maybe not any cabbie, but any decent person would,” the cabbie answered, “I couldn’t hear about some little girl lost in the cold and just go home!  I’d never be able to live with myself.  Just…just I don’t suppose…I’d like to know that they are alright now.”

“We’ll let you know.  Someone will make sure you know.  Just…thank you.”

It was three days before he got a call.  Someone who wasn’t Lestrade or anyone he had met told him the little girl was safe at home with her dads, and that Sherlock Holmes was being released along with his flat mate.

“And did he have pneumonia, the flat mate?”  But the voice didn’t know.  He never did get his cab fare for that night.  He did get a new blanket, dumped on him about a week after the incident by a ragged looking individual.  It had a note pinned to it.  It didn’t say thank you, or sorry, or any of the sorts of things one might expect.  It had an address and the words:

‘She still loves you.  Her son likes dinosaurs.’

He read the words once, and then again.  He blinked quite a lot.  And then he went shopping for lilies…his daughter’s favorite…and a dinosaur.  A normal person would send a thank you card.  Perhaps this young man was more normal than them all.

The End


End file.
